


Undone

by Sigmund



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Head Injury, Hurt Aramis, Hurt d'Artagnan, Hurt/Comfort, Savoy confustion, free form
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-08
Updated: 2014-09-08
Packaged: 2018-02-16 15:59:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2275803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sigmund/pseuds/Sigmund
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Confusion from a head injury takes Aramis back to another time to change the result.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Undone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gaelicspirit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaelicspirit/gifts).



> This has been betaed, then I made some additions so it is unfair if I have left mistakes behind, but know that my beta is a great friend. 
> 
> I gifted this work too because her writing is awesome and she is from another fandom.

He opened his eyes to the snowy landscape, blinking as he felt wetness trickle into his eyes. He lifted his hand, difficult to do as it was covered by a cloak, which he pushed down. He wiped away the liquid, bringing his hand down to notice there was fresh blood on it.

He had to move. His throat tightened while his heartbeat became fast and loud leading his limbs to become weak. He was panicking. He was alive, so he closed his eyes and wished for merciful God to stop the wavering trees, rein in his fears that were feeding the rising nausea. No one else remained.

"Aramis! Aramis!"

The ground crunched in front of him. He started in reaction as a cloth was brought to his forehead until a hand came onto his arm, rubbing back and forth, slow yet purposeful. The touch interrupted the anxiety allowing him to take in a deep breath, exhaling it with a short prayer.

"That's it. You're going to be fine."

He looked at the man in front of him, taking in the brown jacket with pauldron. The fleur de lis emblem was easily apparent in its points and swoops as a symbol of loyalty to stand together with brothers. "You left."

The musketeer bandaged his head with a long strip of white cloth. The panic had left exhaustion in its wake. "Only for a moment to fill the water skins and get the bandages. I can't stitch this."

He raised his hand only part way, finding it too difficult to reach his temple. He was hurt. "I was alone."

"I'll start a fire." The musketeer turned.

"It's too late." His brothers were all dead, and he had been left alone. “How could you?"

"Aramis?"

Near his right hand was his musket. It was always a comfort, fitting in his hand. He pushed back the weakness as righteous anger filled him. The fleur de lis bound them together. Marsac could not leave him and the others. Aramis gripped the musket, lifting it with an infused strength. He had to stop his friend from disgrace. "You left your brothers." He freed the pistol from the cloak.

"Aramis? It's me. This isn't Savoy. You've been hurt. We were on a mission." It was a stream of nonsense he didn't understand.

This was Savoy with the tall trees, the snow on the ground and the bodies he could see defiled. One body on its side, another face down, he squinted at another fallen by a tree slipping, but not to the ground yet. "Are they dead?"

"The bandits are dead."

His hand shook. Musketeers, not bandits.

"Aramis. . ."

Marsac lunged forward as Aramis fired and then brought the butt of his gun down. What he had done was a mercy to his friend to prevent him from running, leaving him instead of fighting and possibly dying if there were other attackers. Aramis wanted to explain how even if they lived, they had still died a little because they were witnesses to the slaughter of musketeers. Now they either died together or lived, Marsac with the knowledge that he had remained with his brothers. There would be no regrets.

His bones were setting with coldness. He needed help against the attackers so he crawled, unable to make it to standing. He turned his head, flaring the wrapped wound on his temple. Then the world tilted, and it was over.

A headache, throbbing met by frostiness and weakness, greeted him when all he dreamed about was warmth. He was lying on the ground. It took a moment, but he got his hands under him to get to sitting, which resulted in the immediate nausea and vomiting of nothing.

His head was in pain, but he used his hands and feet to find he was near a tree with rough bark pinching. He leaned against it, then Aramis unfolded his legs to stretch them, but he found an obstacle impeded him.

There was a body.

Aramis could not see it clearly with his eyes sparking a pattern of stars and spots. He shifted slowly to his knees in multiple steps that were far from graceful but allowed him to stumble over in the murky darkness. He could see the familiar shape of a pauldron.

"d'Artagnan, Mon Dieu. What happened?" The younger man's chest still rose and fell in breath. He was alive — like ice, but alive.

A calmness enveloped Aramis to push aside his own agony. "Make a fire." His breath fogged in exhalation. There was flint in his pocket, along with some branches near d'Artagnan that were not close enough but he had to use them.   There was dizziness. He closed his eyes and heard d'Artagnan say to him, _'I'll be right back. You'll be safe.'_

"d'Artagnan?" He opened his eyes, but d'Artagnan remained silent in the light layering of snow.

"What have I done?"

He tried to stand, but the wooziness forced him back down. He moved slowly to make the fire and provide some light. With the minimal glow he saw the water skins, his saddle bag, and d'Artagnan's cloak.

Using waning strength he ghosted over his friend's body with trembling hands, finding blood seeping from the shoulder. Aramis had shot his brother. More lightheadedness came over him; he closed his eyes and took forceful breaths to ground himself. The air was crisp. He opened his eyes, still blurry with spots, but reached for his saddle bag. He could not stitch or remove the musket ball in the condition he was in. There were some bandages on the top, which he pulled out to put on the wound before covering d'Artagnan with his cloak.

Aramis felt himself faltering and lay close to d'Artagnan so they could share body heat before he succumbed once more to the buzzing in his head with, "Dios, Dios,” on his lips, calling for protection and divine aid.

Someone was shouting. He had to rally to defend his brothers. Strong arms gripped him, rubbed his back before pulling him up. Porthos had moved him so he was sitting against the larger man. "You were delayed in reaching the relay, so we came."

He did not open his eyes. "I thought I was in Savoy." The words were thick in his mouth. A water skin was brought to his lips. Porthos was ignoring him. "Is he alive? Is he alive?"

Aramis opened his eyes. d'Artagnan was laying so still. Athos had his head bent to the younger man's chest. "Yes."

"You're as cold as ice." Porthos wrapped the cloak tighter and his arms even more so as he dragged Aramis to standing. "Your head. . ."

"I thought I was in Savoy. I thought d'Artagnan was Marsac and I couldn't allow him to abandon his brothers. To regret. . ."

"Marsac?" Porthos interrupted, guided him away, but Aramis had trouble getting his feet under him.

Athos was taking care of the boy. "What did you do?"

"I, I, shot d'Artagnan." He repeated it as a litany too many times until Porthos placed a hand on his cheek.

"Shhh. Shhh. There is an inn nearby." Porthos got Aramis on his horse, settled in the front. It was uncomfortable so he threaded his shaking hands in the mane, waiting for Porthos to move into place behind him. "Do you have him?"

Aramis did not know how time had elapsed so quickly. He had just been on the ground. He had been in Savoy.

"Ride," Athos announced, and Aramis was lost once more as they galloped away.

His stupor did not remain once set in front of the fire in their room at the inn, settled with a bowl of warm broth, his feet in hot water, in his shirt and smalls with a blanket covering him. The physician was tending to d'Artagnan.

"He's still cold, but that might have saved him. The ball is out and hopefully he awakens."

"Thank you." Athos pressed some coin in the man's hand.

"He should be in bed, too." The door clicked shut behind the physician as he left.

Porthos dried his feet. It was a humbling act to have his friend tend to him this way after what he had done to d'Artagnan. "You're warming up."

It was a one-sided conversation. He wouldn't, couldn't speak to his brothers. They tucked him in the same bed as d'Artagnan. Aramis curled towards the younger man, trying to watch him but succumbing to much needed sleep.

When Aramis woke, it was with a start, as his thoughts were no longer tangled threads. Savoy was the past, while his mission with the Gascon was the present. "d'Artagnan!"

Athos snorted awake. Porthos came over and sat on the side of the bed, holding Aramis steady. "He's right beside you."

Aramis reached out, placed his hand on d'Artagnan's arm. "I shot him, and I think I hit him too."

"You weren't in your right mind," Athos replied.

It was so simple an excuse, his head injury, the resulting confusion and headache that stabbed through his temple. However, d'Artagnan was not awake and may not live. "I'm a danger."

Porthos pushed him back while Athos placed some pillows behind him so he was sitting up more comfortably.

"With a head wound in a snowy forest." Athos held Aramis's gaze until the sharpshooter looked away. "You were trying to save Marsac from making the mistake that destroyed him."

"Some impressive bruising on your face." Porthos gently held his hand on Aramis's chin. "The physician left this."

Aramis pulled his face away with a wince. He did not want to tend to his wounds; the pain was a punishment. "d'Artagnan?"

"No fever." Porthos patted the younger's man's leg through the roughhewn blankets.

"He's pale." d'Artagnan looked wane. The young man's skin color was still olive, but with an ashen tone to it.

There was no answer, instead some silent communication between Porthos and Athos. He couldn't decipher it. It worried him.

"You should have some broth." Porthos stood up, shirt wrinkled wearing no doublet.

"In a moment." Aramis could not think of broth as his stomach twisted thinking how he tried to right a wrong by creating a more grievous situation.

Athos pressed a cup of water into his hands. "How's the head?"

Every ache and pain had made itself known as it was with head wounds- everything hurt. Aramis returned the cup to Athos. He pushed away the blankets, putting his feet on the floor.

"What are you doing?" Porthos hovered as injury to his friends made him more over protective than usual.

"Getting up," he hissed as the world tilted making the furnishings of the large room slipping to one side.

Athos placed a hand on him to stop him. "Not yet." They stared at each other, although the action made Aramis lightheaded.

d'Artagnan groaned, breaking the impasse. Aramis scooted closer to d'Artagnan's feet, allowing Athos better access to the young man. "d'Artagnan?"

The request was answered with another groan and a shiver. He had missed Aramis's body heat. He quieted down for a moment, until he blinked awake with a frown. "Athos, Aramis needs help.”

Athos filled the cup again with water and helped d'Artagnan to sit up with Porthos's assistance. He passed Aramis the cup to give to d'Artagnan.

"They came. I'm fine, but you're bearing the worst of it, my friend, because of me." Aramis felt his eyes fill. "I am sorry, d'Artagnan. I thought you were Marsac and I had this thought to stop my brother from leaving."

d'Artagnan took a few sips, studying Aramis with a frown. "You're well?"

"A headache and a bruise." Aramis wished he had more to show.

"Not so dashing," Porthos added.

d'Artagnan nodded. "I'll be fine, Mis." He slumped further into Athos. "Careful the next time." As if it was a warning for himself, not to Aramis.

Athos set the young man back down. "Rest."

d'Artagnan closed his eyes. "Aramis?" he uttered.

Athos raised a brow, pulling the blankets back further for Aramis.

With a glance at Athos, a grin from Porthos broke through the disbelief. They understood him better than he knew himself; d'Artagnan had gained that knowledge, too. Aramis lay down, allowing Athos to tuck in the blankets.

 

The end


End file.
